


I Think I Dreamed You Into Life

by patdkitten



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Harry is an earl's son, M/M, Regency Romance, Writer Louis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-04 08:18:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12165054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patdkitten/pseuds/patdkitten
Summary: Louis is a writer in the modern times, focusing primarily on regency novels. In his latest novel, earl's son Harry Styles is his hero, but Louis can't seem to find just the right person for Harry to fall in love with. When Louis falls asleep in front of his laptop, things get a little odd: he wakes up inside the world of his book.





	I Think I Dreamed You Into Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [allwaswell16](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allwaswell16/gifts).



> I am a terrible person. This is late because a) I lost track of time because I got my days mixed up and b) I suffered pretty bad writer's block (I knew what I wanted to write, I just didn't know how to end it). There was also some computer problems thrown in for a good mix. Thanks muchly to the mods for allowing me multiple extensions to get this written.
> 
> I hope you love the fic!! The prompt was: Louis is a Regency romance author in the present day. In his latest novel, his protagonist is an Earl's son, Harry, but for some reason he can't find quite the right character for him to fall in love with. He falls asleep at his laptop one night trying to write a ballroom scene and wakes up in his own story. He's suddenly in the ballroom and the only person Harry seems to be interested in is him.
> 
>  
> 
> Other notes:  
> \- title comes from I Knew I Loved You by Savage Garden  
> \- props to S for everything

The cursor blinks in and out, mockingly, tauntingly: black on white, black on white, black on white. To put it bluntly, it's driving Louis up the wall.

This is what he hates about writer's block: knowing he has the story in his head somewhere, but unable to get the story down exactly the way he wants it in the first go. He knows that, realistically, he can always go back during the multiple editing sessions he goes through for each book and fix the plot holes and the wonky writing he put just to hit a specific word count for the day.

If he's being honest with himself, he _hates_ writing out things that don't work right away, just to work through writer's block. He's too much of a perfectionist for it to be acceptable.

He saves what he's written so far – it's nearly 5k words, setting up his latest main male character and the man's glittering, Regency era world, and he does feel pretty proud of himself that he's gotten that much written in a single day – before he grabs his mouse and clicks over to Firefox. The click of his mouse is loud and obnoxious to his ears in his flat, noticeable even over the instrumental music he uses when he's writing. The sound is almost as mocking as the cursor blinking in the word doc had been.

A couple cat videos, a read through of the TV Tropes page for Reformed Rake (as well as another five tropes, but no one's watching him, so no one's the wiser for it, definitely not Louis), and some Amazon shopping later, Louis pushes himself away from his computer desk to stand up and stretch. The only thing he's doing staring at the computer screen the way he is is driving himself insane, rather like someone who lays awake late at night, staring at the ceiling and wishing, nay, praying for the release sleep brings.

What he needs is a cup of tea. Maybe the break will help with the writer’s block. Will help figure out how to get from point A to point B in the first go, and not in later edits.

He grabs the note cards he's been working from, heading to the kitchen. He studies his character card for his main male character – Harry Styles, 20, son of an earl, brown hair, green eyes, dimples – as he puts the kettle on. His problem isn't figuring out who Harry is as a person. It's more complicated than that: usually, Louis' got a good idea of the romantic relationship he's going for in his Regency romances.

But Harry's stumping Louis. In fact, if Harry was a real person, Louis'd say that the man is cock blocking him.

He drops a teabag into his mug, laying down the note cards for the girls he'd plotted out on his counter, and stares at them with a frown. He's due for a straight Regency romance novel, balancing out that his last had involved a gay romance, but none of these girls seem to be doing it for Harry. Seem to be doing it for _him_.

He's just considered the idea that maybe he should start thinking about coming up with a male romantic interest instead (although he has no idea what sort of male romantic interest would interest someone like Harry) when the kettle whistles cheerily. He pushes himself away from the counter, taking the kettle off the stove and pouring the hot water over his teabag.

As he makes his way back to his desk, Louis' got a pretty good idea of where he should go from here in his novel, even though he still has no clue what to do for the romantic interest. He sets the mug down next to his keyboard, cracks his knuckles and starts writing once more.

He builds up a few more events, sets up a few different meetings that he'll remove all but one of later, and sets up the story up for a grand ball at the Styles' estate for all of the ton. It's a bit Cinderella-esque, but Louis' always been one that thought the classic tropes are always the best tropes.

Despite his motivation, however, Louis feels his eyelids growing heavy somewhere around the 7k mark and it's not long before he's pillowing his head on his forearms and falling asleep.

 

There's something wrong. That's Louis' first thought when he startles awake: something is wrong. And sure enough, something _is_ wrong. He remembers falling asleep in front of his computer, in the middle of writing, and... this is very much _not_ his flat. In fact, he notes to himself as he pushes himself up, he's pretty sure he's not even in an apartment building.

The wall across from him is extravagant, lined with fancy tables and paintings. In fact, the wall _behind_ him is the same, except instead of tables, small couches like the one he's sitting on line the wall.

“Where am I?” Louis whispers to himself as he pushes himself out of the plush couch. The sound of boots hitting wooden flooring startles him this time, and he looks down at himself. He's wearing a dark blue brocade tailcoat, with a white shirt and navy blue waistcoat, and soft black trousers. Knee high riding black riding boots complete his outfit.

He catches sight of a mirror close to where he is, and hurries over there. Sure enough, his hair is slicked back in a quiff and he looks like he belongs in a movie based on a Jane Austen book. Or, rather...

“I look like I'm in a Regency novel,” Louis whispers, leaning in toward the mirror like it holds more answers to all his questions. Like why, how, and most importantly: how does he get back to his own time?

Wait. Wait, wait, wait. He pushes away from the wall and the mirror, composing himself. “Time travel doesn't exist,” he tells himself in what he's hoping is a super confident voice. He pats the air in front of him, firmly content he's got it all figured out: he's _dreaming_. That's the only valid explanation.

“Are you okay, sir?” The voice is low, slow and husky, and sounds like it _definitely_ belongs in one of his dreams. (One of his _wet dreams_ , if he's honest). It makes him whirl around, startled.

It also makes him slam his shin into the nearest table, and the pain that radiates up his leg at that is definitely _not_ dream quality.

The pain gets ignored as he looks at the person who spoke to him and, despite feeling an overwhelming sense of familiarity he can't place, the man before him is pretty much going to be in a starring role of all of Louis' wet dreams for the next few months. He's taller than Louis is, with long brown hair pulled back into a quiff and the most piercing mossy green eyes Louis' ever seen.

Those green eyes land on the couch Louis had woken up on before back to Louis' face. “You fainted earlier. I just wanted to make sure you were okay after you woke.” He takes a few steps closer, long fingers twisting in a nervous fashion.

Louis wishes those fingers were touching him.

And then his brain catches up with the rest of him: the young man in front of him is acting like a hero out of a romance novel. Out of a _historical_ romance novel.

Oh god in heaven, he's practically a character in one of _Louis'_ novels. No wonder this young man looks like he just walked out of Louis' wet dreams.

He must look like he's floundering around because a frown starts to cross the other man's face, and a line begins to form on his forehead. “Are you, perhaps, ill in the head then? Should I have a doctor sent for?”

Louis must take too long to answer – he's being a goddamned _idiot_ over this – because the young man backs up, probably to have a servant go for said doctor or even go himself. The action makes him shoot his hand out, catching the young man by the wrist. The very soft, smooth, firm wrist.

“No, no, I'm fine,” Louis begins before he realises that he's _in_ one of his romance novels, especially when the young man frowns more at him, eyes flicking from Louis' face to his wrist and back. He takes a moment to remember how they talk in Regency novels, how they stand and how they act before he pulls himself together properly, dropping his hand from the other man's wrist. “I'm quite alright. I thank you for your concern...?”

That shakes the frown from the young man's face, replacing it with a sheepish expression. “Oh. Oh. I'm sorry, I have terrible manners.” He holds his hand out with a bright smile. “Lord Styles, but my friends call me Harry.”

Something in Louis' brain short circuits at the introduction, causing the hand that had begun to be extended to the handsome young man to hang limply in the air. Lord Harry Styles? No wonder he felt the familiarity to the young man in front of him: his very own creation is standing in front of Louis, flesh and bone, brown curls and mossy green eyes.

“You wouldn't happen to be the son of the Earl of Cheshire?” Louis finds himself saying, feeling a lot like he's got to make sure this isn't just some freaky dream or a terrible coincidence. Or, god help him, he managed to die in his sleep and now he's doomed to exist in his romance novels for the rest of eternity.

The smile on Harry's face – Lord Styles', since he's being too familiar with his own character – widens, revealing dimples that Louis _definitely_ hadn't put in his notes. He'll have to if he wakes up from this dream. The young man takes a few steps closer to Louis, causing him to notice that the young lord stands a bit pigeon-toed and stands like he wishes his upbringing and manners would allow him to curl his shoulders in to make himself look smaller. It's very hopelessly endearing and puts Harry into more of a three-dimensional character that Louis didn't think possible. It also makes Louis hope he remembers all this when he wakes up. He knows the possibility exists that he died in his flat and this is what comes next, but he's hoping it's all just a dream.

“You do know me, then,” the other man begins before frowning once more, the line from before reappearing on his brow. “But you have me at a loss. I don't know your name, sir.”

Louis has no idea what his name is. That's what it's come down to: he’s forgotten his own name. How tragic is that? Between the expression on Harry's face and the mirror he can see out of the corner of his eye, Louis' well aware he's gaping like a fish as he tries to figure out what his name is.

“Tomlinson,” is what finally comes out of his mouth just as Harry's mouth opens to say something else. “Lord Tomlinson. Louis.”

The frown fades from Harry's face, getting replaced with something Louis can't quite read, but the young man extends his hand once more. Louis' not one to feel small – he absolutely hates the idea of someone making him feel short or acting like he's shorter than his 5'9 – but Harry's hand feels like a giant paw as it envelopes Louis'. Just like it feels like Harry's looming over him.

Now, if this were a novel Louis were writing, he's absolutely positive he'd be the love interest. As it is, he's got no idea how to get out of this.... this.... whatever the bloody hell _this_ is.

Might as well play up the damsel in distress routine, and see where this goes. Might even figure out who in this glittering Regency world is perfect for the incredibly gorgeous young lord in front of him.

“Forgive me,” Louis says, pulling his hand away like he's embarrassed. He regrets it immediately, misses the feel of Harry's soft skin against his already. “My fainting spell must have rattled my head, Lord Styles. Could you perhaps tell me where we are?”

Something very like concern crosses Harry's face, but it doesn't reach his voice as the other man responds. “We're at my father's country estate.” His hand gestures down the hallway, teasing Louis with both its nearness and how far away it is. “There's dancing in the ballroom going on at present. We'd just had dinner when you had your fainting spell.”

The hand that Louis had hoped would come back to touch him reaches around to cup the back of Louis' head, fingers lightly touching his scalp like the other man's looking for a bump or other wound from Louis' supposed fainting spell. He doesn't want the other man to ever stop touching him.

“Perhaps...” Louis trails off, eyes closing as Harry's fingers continue their inspection of his scalp, although he knows that the other man won't find anything. It just feels _so good_. “Perhaps we'd best go back to the ballroom. Our disappearance might be remarked on.”

He's hoping that this dream, or whatever it is, exists in the same sort of Regency romance novel he normally writes, where homosexuality isn't frowned on. Where two young men wouldn't be the topic of malicious gossip. He's proven correct when he notices a faint blush cross the young lord's face.

“We wouldn't want gossip, now would we?” Harry says, holding his arm out to Louis. Like Louis' some sort of Regency romance heroine, and not another man. If this were the real world, Louis would frown and just make his own way to the ballroom. But it's not, and he's pretending to be a character in a romance novel.

Besides, it's _definitely_ not a hardship to slip his arm through Harry's.

 

Louis' writing had definitely _not_ done the Styles' manor's ballroom justice. That's his first thought as he lets himself be led into the large room.

Jane Austen movies have _nothing_ on this ballroom, with its gleaming wood flooring and high ceilings painted in gold-leaf and warm red tones. On the far wall, painted in the same warm red tones as the ceiling, directly opposite to the doors he's walking in, is another set of wooden doors. The wall to his left is lined with floor to ceiling mirrors, reflecting the cheerily lit candles around the room and the dancers and other guests in the room. Opposite the mirrors is a bank of windows – floor to ceiling as well – leading out into, if he knows his Regency novels, a darkened garden. From where he stands, he can see a few of those same windows are actually doors leading out into, he would assume, said gardens.

The guests themselves are swathed in an array of dazzling colours, candlelight flashing off expensive jewelry and heavily polished boots. Louis has to take a moment to take it all in, trying to look like he's used to such a sight but knowing he's staring wide eyed. He knows that he should be memorizing how everything looks, in order to properly write his book when he gets back to reality.

When he wakes up from this dream.

But all he can see are the people, see the room before him in bright colours and flickering lights. Feel the comforting weight of Lord Styles' arm beneath his. Feel the softness of Lord Styles' hand when the young man lightly places his hand over Louis'.

“Perhaps you'd fancy a dance?” The young lord asks, sounding shy all of a sudden. Louis finds himself turning toward the man, toward _Harry_.

“I would love to,” he finds himself whispering. In his reality, real life or whatever is the opposite of what's currently happening, Louis can't dance to save his life. He's hoping his dream self knows how to dance, or this is going to derail fast from the most lush, romantic dream he's ever had to the a complete nightmare.

It turns out that his dream self does indeed know how to dance, or at the least that Harry's an excellent lead. He doesn't know how long they dance, loses track of anything that isn't Harry's face, Harry's smile, Harry's eyes, Harry's hand whenever they touch. In perfect dreamlike quality, he's aware of others around them, the other dancers to either side of them and the occasional person he partners of with when the dance requires it.

But the only thing, the only _person_ he has eyes for is Harry. And, judging by the expression on the young lord's face and the way those mossy lake green eyes follow every single one of Louis' moves, the other feels the same way.

The dance ends, or maybe the multiple dances, and Harry pulls Louis in close. One broad hand rests on the small of Louis' back, anchoring him to this moment, this breath as Lord Styles looks down at him.

It takes Louis a few moments, a few breaths, a few heartbeats to realise they're not as alone as he'd thought. He can see people out of the corner of his eye, watching them intensely. It brings him up sharply, wondering if he'd misjudged his own creation before he sees other same sex couples scattered around the room intermixed with the straight couples.

But even with the other same sex couples, Louis feels a lot like he and Harry are lost in their own little world. Now Louis gets what was going through his heroes' and heroines' minds whenever they were in this, _his_ position.

Which brings him up short. This isn't supposed to be _his_ moment at all. This moment, this _feeling_ belongs to someone else. Someone else in this room, or someone that'll arrive late ala Cinderella and run out before the clock strikes midnight and the princely Lord Styles kisses them.

Louis starts to pull away from Harry's warm grip, already looking around the room to see if he can see the person that should be in his shiny boots right now. But before he can pull away completely, Harry gets a better grip on him.

“It's a bit warm in here. Would you like to step outside with me?” The young lord's voice is soft, a bit unsure. Like he's convinced that Louis might still pull away completely, or not be interested in going out in the gardens with him.

Like he has much of a worry there.

Then again, maybe the person Harry's supposed to be with for this book is outside. Imagine how romantic that would be: finding the love of your life, your happily ever after, under the moonlight in a gorgeous garden.

It's the _perfect_ setting for a romance novel.

That's Louis' thought as Lord Styles leads him through the crowd of other dancers, other people, and out through one set of the doors he'd noticed earlier: that the gardens they're entering is the perfect setting for a romance novel. It's getting harder and harder for Louis to grasp that this is just a piece of fiction, just a very lovely dream. It's certainly gorgeous and well-rounded, where Louis can touch his creations if he decided he wanted to, but it's still fiction.

The thought causes Louis to look around, knowing he should be figuring out who Harry's true love is. What they look like, how they move and speak, how Harry looks when he sees them for the first time.

He tamps down the jealousy that flairs up at that thought. It's irrational, that jealousy, because Harry's not _his_. Harry might be a figment of Louis' imagination, a figure that will play future starring roles in more than one of Louis' sexual fantasies, and he's definitely Louis' creation. But Harry's not _his_.

“Why do you keep doing that?” The low, husky voice cuts straight through Louis' thoughts to his very core, and he's sorry to say that he jumps. It's his own fault, Louis knows, that he's so busy trying to figure out who Harry's supposed to fall in love with, and how he'd know that person, that he keeps forgetting he's walking _with_ Harry.

“I beg your pardon, sir?” Louis asks, hand coming up to press against his chest as he wills his heartbeat to slow to a reasonable pace. One that won't have him fainting for real. The action makes him look, and feel, even more like a damsel in the novels he writes, and he knows that he hates being seen as weaker.”

“I noticed that when you're not focused on me, like when we were dancing, you look around like you're looking for someone else.” In the darkness of the garden, even lit above by the full moon, Louis can't see the true colour of Harry's eyes, but he imagines they're darker than they were before. It's something in Harry's voice, a sudden sadness there. One, he realises with a start, that _Louis_ put there.

It makes Louis drop his hand from his chest, reaching for Harry instinctively. “It's not you, if that's what you were worrying about. I'm just....” He trails off, not quite sure what he's going to say next. Just what? Scared he's already falling for a fictional character? Scared that he's falling for _his_ fictional character? That _Harry_ isn't real?

“You're just what?” Harry's voice is still soft, but the taller man moves closer to Louis, making him look up. The tip of Harry's tongue darts out to smooth over lips Louis knows are rosy pink, even though the colour is faded in the darkness of the garden.

It makes Louis want to lean up and kiss the other man.

“I'm scared,” Louis finally whispers, knowing in that very instant how every hero and every heroine love interest feels falling for their other half in every romance novel he's ever read or written.

Harry moves impossibly closer, his hands coming up to rest lightly on Louis' hips as the young lord's eyes flick down to Louis' lips. Like he's on the same wavelength Louis is. Like he wants to kiss Louis just as badly as Louis wants to kiss him.

“Don't be scared,” the other man whispers as he leans down to Louis. Louis, for his part, closes his eyes and feels himself lean into the kiss......

 

...and his eyes open to see his mug. The annoyed and tired looking cat on the side seems to mirror his mood, and it takes him a moment of staring dully at the words “mornings are the worst” above the cat for him to realise he's back in his flat. His back is also killing him from having been slouched over in front of his laptop.

He pushes away from his desk, standing up to stretch. Louis can't fucking believe he fell asleep in front of his laptop, like he's back in uni. A glance at the clock tells him he'd only been asleep for an hour, but he should definitely go to bed so he doesn't do that again.

It's not until he's brushing his teeth in his bathroom mirror, mouth all foamy, that he remembers the dream he had while asleep. Harry. The ballroom. The dance. The moonlit gardens.

His toothbrush falls from suddenly slack fingers, clattering into the sink. _The near kiss_.

He'd been stumped on who would make a perfect match for Lord Harry Styles, son of the Earl of Cheshire. That must've been why he had that (incredibly great) dream. And that dream had answered that important question: _why not him_?

He spits out the toothpaste in his mouth, hurrying back to his laptop to grab a notecard and starts scribbling down all relevant information he can think of for Lord Louis Tomlinson. After all, no one's going to know he's basing his latest love interest off himself; he might have fans that know he's a male romance writer, but he writes under a female name.

So much for his earlier writer's block. This might actually be one of Louis' favourite novels of his.

 

 

If there's one thing Louis hates even more than writer's block or looming deadlines, it's book signings. Yeah, he loves his fans, even though most of them are women that range in age from his sister Lottie to his mum Jay (both of which are two of his biggest supporters, and who he writes his books for, if he's honest), and he absolutely _loves_ meeting them.

What he's _not_ a fan of are the boyfriends and husbands of his female fans being right dicks to them, and to him, because he's a male writer in a female writer dominated genre. He's only met one other male writer at writer conventions, and they've had countless talks about how women must feel in other genres that male authors dominate in.

Tonight's book signing, though, doesn't seem to have too many men attending. Yeah, there's a couple here and there, but most of his audience is women in wine-and-book-clubs, or people who'd been browsing the store and had their curiosity get the better of them. He gets through his reading just fine, answers a few questions about his newest book and even a few about previous books of his, and then it's time for the actual signing.

He settles in behind the table, cracking his knuckles and stretching as the lady from the book store hosting this event goes over the information for the people lining up to have books signed: no more than two books signed per person, selfies can be taken with Louis if he gives permission first, and above all else, to be polite and not to push fellow fans or butt in line.

The first few fans go by in a blur of girlish giggles and cheerful smiles in selfies, and Louis finds himself getting into a rhythm of asking fans who they want the signature addressed to, and what their favourite book is by him.

Halfway through the line, though, his routine falters when someone sets down an iced latte and a blueberry muffin in front of him. He blinks at them for a moment, startled by their appearance.

“Sorry, I can't accept food items,” he begins, looking up at the fan who set them in front of him, and immediately swallows his tongue. He'd noticed earlier there'd been a few men in his audience, but he's pretty sure he would've remembered the man standing in front of him now. In fact, Louis realises as he stares into the young man's mossy green eyes, the man in front of him could be a dead ringer for Harry from his novel.

“I know you can't accept _homemade_ food items,” the young man chuckles, a smile crossing his face that, yup, reminds Louis of the dream he'd had that had helped him finish his book. _Dead ringer_. Long fingers tap the side of the straw of the iced latte. “Which is why these came from the coffee place here in the store. I figure these things are long and you're feeling a bit parched and hungry, and can't leave this table because of the line behind me.”

The young man has a point, and the smell of the blueberry muffin wafts in Louis' direction, making his mouth water. He's hungry and still not sure if they haven't been tampered with, but he's also not rude. So he smiles, taking them and setting them aside. “Thank you. That was very thoughtful of you. Did you have a book you wanted signed then?”

“Oh!” The young man starts, like he'd forgotten, before he pulls out a couple books from the messenger bag slung over his shoulder. One is his latest book, and the other is one of his earlier books. In fact, the earlier book has ties to this latest book: it hadn't gone further than his personal notes for his newest book, but the heroine of the earlier book eventually becomes Harry's mum. “I'd like you to sign this one,” he holds up the earlier book before setting it down for Louis to sign, “to Anne, if you would, please. A-N-N-E.”

Louis' pretty sure he's being had because Anne, spelled the same way, had been the heroine of the book he's currently signing. But he does it anyway, adding a personalised note and signs it. “And the other?”

“Harry, please.” The young man smiles secretively when Louis' head shoots back up to stare at him. “Funny, right? I've got the same first name as one of the male heroes in your latest book. My mum thinks he sounds like me too.”

“He does.” Louis finds himself saying, knowing he's staring like a deer in headlights now. This is just too _weird_. He shakes himself, trying to break the spell, and pulls the book to him to sign. “It never went past my notes, but Anne from the first book you had me signed is the same Anne that's Harry's mum in my latest.”

“And is the Louis in the book supposed to be you?” Harry asks with a smile as Louis slides the book back. He doesn't wait for a response, though, like he's aware they're not the only two people in the room. He points toward the iced latte with a smile as he backs up. “If he is, maybe you should call me?”

Harry holds up his thumb and pinky up like he's miming a phone, still smiling as Louis' eyes drop to the iced latte. Sure enough, there's a number written there.

Harry's already gone when Louis looks back up. As he turns his attention to the next fan patiently waiting in line, he thinks that, maybe, he really _will_ call Harry.

After all, if real life Harry is anything like Lord Harry Styles from Louis' book, Louis wouldn't mind being his counterpart.


End file.
